Cullen's Mercy
by EssentiallyRei
Summary: Commander Cullen struggles with day-to-day living as he fights the nightmares of his past when he sleeps and fights lyrium withdrawals when he's awake. Everyone may be in trouble when Cullen has an exceptionally bad day. Including an innocent recruit who had no idea what she was in for when she joined the Inquisition's army. This is kind of a romantic comedy. Cullen/OC
1. Chapter 1: No More Mercy

**Chapter One: No More Mercy**

Commander Cullen rubbed his tired brow as he stood and watched the new recruits being lectured. He was not normally with the recruits anymore, not even to observe, not now that the Inquisition had moved to Skyhold and its numbers were increasing every day because of those looking to join the Inquisition or those who were just visiting to see the Inquisition's grand progress. Since moving to Skyhold, his job had essentially become a desk job. When he wasn't in his office looking over reports and summarizing them in ink for the Inquisitor, he was at the war table advising Inquisitor Trevelyan in matters of troop movements and opportunities across Thedas for their forces. This took up a majority of Cullen's time.

Still, Cullen always tried to keep track of the progress of the new recruits through the reports and liaisons. After all, the recruits were men and women who were giving up their normal lives to fight for a greater cause. They deserved some attention. He often found himself wishing he could give them more of his attention. Maybe he should go back to training them as he was in Haven, when the Inquisition was still a babe.

But with a battle against Corypheus' forces drawing near, that just wasn't possible. The Inquisitor needed Cullen focusing on war tactics and overseeing all of the Inquisition's army, not personally training the army.

Although, in regards to that matter, Cullen could imagine the Inquisitor saying something like, _"If it would help us win against Corypheus."_

_It could_, Cullen would reply if he was feeling smug.

Today he was not feeling smug. Today he was having a particularly bad day with his lyrium withdrawals. He was most certainly not in a good mood, but he was trying not to make it noticeable by staying in his office reading reports from Commander Rylen at Griffon Wing Keep.

Yet Cullen found himself distracted from his work by a commotion that had somehow arisen from the Inquisition's latest army recruits. He was now outside his office, standing at the sidelines of Skyhold's training area as one of the drill sergeants yelled at a line of twelve recruits with the fury of the Andraste behind his words.

Apparently the recruits had started a free-for-all swordfight that caused one of the surgeon's tents to get knocked down—thankfully empty at the time. Three sacks of medicinal herbs got trampled. And a mage that was caught in the swordfight set fire to four training dummies. _Costly_, Cullen foresaw Josephine's outlook of the situation—if it got brought up; and it no doubt would be, even if in passing at the war table.

He could see Leliana being embarrassed for Cullen's sake as the Inquisitor just laughed at the entirety of the matter, which would put a damper in Cullen asking for a proper infirmary within Skyhold, away from the training area. He saw it as a very serious matter. _Recruits should not be allowed to act this way_, he told himself as he rubbed his brow, feeling irritated.

Cullen would also have to expect a vehement letter from the surgeon to arrive in his office later on, if the surgeon herself didn't show up at his office door with a death threat. Cullen grimaced; with all her talk of amputations and drilling holes into people's heads, the surgeon scared him.

"This is not behavior befit for an Inquisition soldier," the drill sergeant spat into the face of one of the recruits. "Our army does not allow troublemakers into our ranks. Do you understand?! If the person who was responsible for starting this _'free-for-all' _does not step forward, then all of you will be kicked out of the Inquisition and sent back to where you came from. Do you hear me?!"

There was silence among the recruits and the rightfully impatient drill sergeant stamped down the line with a scowl that could scare away almost anyone who was truly guilty.

Before the drill sergeant reached the end of the line, someone stepped forward.

"Drill Sergeant, it was me. I started and encouraged the free-for-all."

The drill sergeant stepped up to the woman who had stepped forward.

"I'm also the one who knocked down the tent," the woman added with a small amount of shame in her voice. The recruit was a small, very petite and slender woman. Her average-sized sword at her hip was almost half the length that she was. Her helmet was obviously too big for her head, because as the drill sergeant glared at her in contempt, the woman pushed the rim of it out of her field of view just so she could see forward.

"You," the drill sergeant said with disgust, but with no surprise. "I somehow knew it was you, Recruit Calloway. You've been nothing but trouble the moment you stepped into my training ground."

_Calloway_, Cullen recalled the name. He remembered seeing the name in several of the daily reports he had received on the recruits over that past four weeks. He specifically remembered a report that said that Recruit Calloway was constantly arguing with the drill sergeant. The first day had been about how she did not want to wear her helmet, and how she refused to use a sword that would fit her "build". Cullen was certain that _build_ was the word the drill sergeant had used in the report, and now he understood why. Her build was not very… _soldierly_. It was barely a _build_ at all.

The second mentioning of Calloway in a report was of how she had managed to accidentally knock over, with her sword, the scaffolding being used to repair a crumbling wall near the training area, setting the repair schedule back by several days. Other reports later in the week revealed more acts of clumsiness committed by Calloway; more and more small damages that added up to be _costly_.

The following week there was a report of all the shields in the armory being found with a blue phallic symbol painted on their fronts. Calloway was discovered not only with the jar of blue paint under her bed, but the blue paint was also on her person. She was punished by having to scrub-wash every shield and armament in the armory.

According to the Drill Sergeant's progress reports, Calloway was also struggling in training, unable to keep up with the progress of the others. Not to mention the periodic scraps she would get into with them, alienating her from the group in team exercises.

So this was the what? Eighth? Ninth time? That Recruit Calloway had caused trouble. Cullen was not very happy.

"That's it, Calloway! You're done," the drill sergeant barked. "Pack up your things, and leave. I'm kicking you out of the Inquisition."

"Sir, I must decline your resolution," the petite recruit argumentatively said in return.

"You what?!" the drill sergeant screamed back. "You don't have a choice in the matter! This isn't your Inquisition! You're leaving, or I'll have you thrown in the stocks for trespassing on Inquisition property!"

A few of Skyhold's visitors were now stopped and watching. Calloway's insubordination was causing a scene. Cullen knew this was going to come back to haunt him at the war table.

Calloway remained at attention in front of the drill sergeant and said, "Put me in the stocks, Drill Sergeant. But I am not leaving."

"Dragon shite! I _will_ have you put in the stocks if you—"

Cullen had had enough. He angrily sighed and stepped toward the recruits, firmly calling out, "Calloway. I want to see you in my office. Now!" And he began walking in the applicable direction.

Everyone, upon the command Cullen had given Calloway, including the drill sergeant, had frozen into position, more so than they already were for being at attention. They knew, without a doubt, that Calloway was now in _real_ trouble. And perhaps, the sympathetic recruits and onlookers were worried as to how the small, argumentative recruit would react to an order given by the Commander of the Inquisition's armies. Would she argue with him? Insubordination to Commander Cullen could land her a spot in the Inquisition's dungeons, for life.

Calloway had still not moved, so Cullen stopped, turned, and with frustration said, "Well? You shouldn't keep your Commander waiting. Move, recruit."

And so she did. Without glancing at any of the other recruits or the drill sergeant, Calloway followed Cullen in the direction of his office. The walk was long and silent; and Cullen could only imagine how humiliating it was for Calloway as everyone they passed stared at her in horror—as if the happening on the training ground had already spread through Skyhold like mage fire.

Thankfully, Cullen hadn't needed to turn around to make sure Calloway was keeping up with him; the recruit was diligent and dutiful in her steps as she followed him. He did briefly wonder if perhaps the recruit was fearful for her life, but he decided against the notion. He wasn't that scary. Was he? He knew he could be if he wanted to be. Oh Maker, had he terrified the poor recruit? That had not been his intention.

When they finally reached his office door, he opened it and gestured for Calloway to enter first, avoiding eye contact with her when she went in without hesitation. Not that he could see her eyes, anyway—they were covered by her ill-fit helmet again. Once she was inside, Cullen followed suit, closing the door behind him.

Cullen could only think of a few other instances where he had spoken with someone in his office on misconduct before. Never at Skyhold; and certainly not recently. The last time had been in Kirkwall when he was a Knight-Captain. Typically he would confront the misconduct upfront and in front of everyone, but that could have proven to be a mistake in a case like Calloway's. And Calloway wasn't a Templar. Cullen would be angrier with her if she was. A misbehaving Templar was—well, Cullen used to find it dastardly and intolerable. Now, with the Red Templars walking around, it seemed common.

"Have a seat," Cullen told her, and he gestured to the chair in front of his desk. As she sat, he went around to his side of the desk and remained standing with his arms crossed. It wasn't meant to look intimidating; it was his usual stance when he was waiting for something.

When Calloway seemed settled into the chair, Cullen started with, "Recruit Calloway—"

"Mercy, Commander," she interrupted him.

Cullen's words got caught in his throat. Had he terrified her so much that she was asking for mercy? She didn't look to be shaking from where he was. She looked steady, and even relaxed, despite that he couldn't see her face from underneath the rim of her helmet.

She wasn't scared, he finally decided, before he expressed, "Let me finish, and you may find that _I am_ merciful."

Calloway right-out chuckled. "Mercy is my name, Commander," she explained. "Mercy Calloway."

Cullen found that he couldn't speak, again. "Oh," he simply replied.

Recruit Calloway then took the moment to remove her helmet, revealing sharp, bright green eyes, and dark brown hair that was kept in a bun at the back of her head. Her height and vibrant voice had lead Cullen to believe she was young, perhaps still a teen, but her face was defined enough to reveal that she was older—perhaps in her late twenties.

Calloway ruffled the top of her head where strands of her hair were escaping and sticking up in different directions. She then chuckled a second time, rested her helmet on her leg, and said, "Helmet hair," before she looked up and innocently smiled at the Cullen.

The first thought that popped into Cullen's head was: _Maker's Mercy, her eyes are beautiful._ He almost voiced this thought, but caught himself by forcing himself to look at his desk.

"_Recruit Mercy_, the way you prefer, then," he started again. "I've gotten multiple reports on your misconduct. The drill sergeant has marked you as a troublemaker, and from what I've seen in the reports and now witnessed down on the training grounds, I quite agree. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Recruit Mercy stirred in the chair. "Innocent until proven guilty?" she hesitantly asked.

"You do realize that you confessed out there, to almost half of Skyhold?" Cullen asked; he was beginning to wonder about Mercy's sanity.

"Of course, Commander," she said with regret, but there was also resolve in her voice. "Someone had to step up and take the blame, or everyone would have been sent home."

Cullen was silent as he considered her answer. He had misjudged her character, he understood that immediately. However, there was still the matter of her inability to keep up with the other recruits' progress.

"Why are you here, Mercy?" he eventually blurted. "Your determination to be in the army is honorable, I'll give you that. But you are clearly not… " he stopped while he was ahead of himself. Instead, he chose to say, "You barely fit into your own armor. You're clumsy with a sword. The other recruits have singled you out as an easy target to pick on. You're not—"

"Army material," she finished for him, nodding.

"Yes," he agreed, offering a sympathizing frown. "I think at this point, it is best that I agree with the drill sergeant and have you sent home."

"I'm not leaving," she stubbornly replied.

"Fine," Cullen said as he turned his attention to a paper on his desk, pretending to be done with the conversation. "You don't have to leave Skyhold, but you are not staying in the Inquisition's army; I just kicked you out."

It was harsh, he knew. It was also the right decision.

Mercy stayed seated and silent for a good long minute. The hand resting on her leg then twitched almost into a fist, and she grimaced. Then she sighed. "Fine," she repeated his settlement of the matter, in a defeated tone. "You're right. I'm clearly not right for your army." She then stood and set her helmet on his desk, before unstrapping the sword on her waist. She then raised the sword and dropped it onto the center of Cullen's desk. "You asked me why I am here. I am here, Commander Cullen, because I have faith. I will now let that faith guide me to a new occupation. Thank you for clearing up my misperception as to what I thought it was before."

With that, she turned and walked out of his office, closing the door behind her.

Cullen stared at the closed door for a long time. There had been no anger in her parting words, as he had expected. She had not even slammed the door behind her. Had he wanted her to argue with him, he was realizing? Was he really feeling that combative from the lyrium withdrawals that he took it out on a recruit who had just took the blame for the misconduct of several others who had been bullying her? And she had just let him do it—this Mercy Calloway had just let Cullen kick her out of the army without a fight.

Cullen plopped himself into his chair and rested his head in a hand, slamming his other hand onto the desk. The sword in front of him jumped. He looked down at it, noticing that it was not the normal sword of a recruit. He picked it up by the hilt and it examined it more closely. It was a customized sword—a family sword, he noted the heraldry mark engraved into the blade. It was the heraldry of the Highever teyrnir.

That's when the door to Cullen's office opened and the Inquisitor stepped in. "Cullen, I hope this isn't a bad time… Hey, who was that who just left your office? She looked upset. Uh-oh," the Inquisitor said as he saw the sword in Cullen's hand. "What happened?"

"Maxwell," Cullen informally acknowledged the Inquisitor, but standing from the desk in respect. "I'm actually rather confused as to what just happened. I, uh… I think the woman I just dismissed from the army just turned in her family sword to me."

The Inquisitor cocked an eyebrow and whistled. "You kicked her out of the Inquisition's army? No wonder she looked upset. And the sword… You clearly don't understand a woman's scorn. The sword has to be a message. Maybe she's saying she's going to come back and kill you. I think you should run after her and beg for forgiveness."

"Funny," Cullen said with a crude smile. Then he sighed. "But you're right. I think I made a mistake somewhere. I should at least make sure she gets her sword back."

"Let me know if you need any help," Maxwell spoke with a happy-to-help smile. Then he made for the door.

"Did you need something?" Cullen asked after him.

"Not really," Maxwell shrugged. "I heard what happened on the training ground and I wanted to see for myself if everything was okay."

"Nothing goes unseen here," Cullen grumbled as Maxwell left whistling a happy tune.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> So the unexpected happened. Cullen stole a place in my heart. He'll never replace the special place I have for Alistair, but Commander Cullen did succeed in making his own special place. Darn that quirky side-glance and smile of his. Anyway, I became inspired to write an Inquisition romance story for Cullen, but a romance with the Inquisitor would have been too redundant. Instead, I hope you enjoy the cheese that will ensue between Cullen and Mercy Calloway. This story is just for fun as I continue my DA research (by playing Inquisition).


	2. Chapter 2: Dragoons and Werewooves

**Chapter 2: Dragoons and Werewooves**

It had been a few hours since Cullen's dismissal of Mercy Calloway. Her sword was still atop his desk, which he was not at. Rather, he stood by his bookshelves trying to catch up on some reading.

When he first set up his office, he had the books brought in with the idea that he could study previous accounts of battles—anything that could help defeat Corypheus. Regrettably, with everything else going on there had not been much time for reading books. He was only trying to read now to avoid staring at the sword on his desk and wondering how his encounter earlier with Mercy Calloway could have gone any differently.

Was there any gentler way of kicking someone out of the army? He supposed he could have at least helped her find somewhere to stay in Skyhold until she found other arrangements.

Why was this bothering him so much? He had made the right decision, he was sure of it. He didn't have time to worry about there being one less recruit in the Inquisition. It wasn't like she had died; in fact, he was certain he was saving her life. If she wasn't cut out to be a soldier, then she was better off not being one.

Perhaps Cullen was simply using the incident to get his mind off the lyrium withdrawals, because he had a headache, and thinking about the sword and Mercy Calloway was a far better escape than reading reports—or trying to read a book with a headache.

Nothing he was reading was impressive, anyway, so Cullen gave up and put the book away. He began to pace in front of his desk. When he stopped, he glanced at Mercy's sword. He had had every intention of returning her sword moments after the Inquisitor left his office, but what if the Inquisitor had been right? What if Mercy was furious—not with a return-to-kill-Cullen fury, but with an I-don't-want-to-talk-to-you fury? She would need time to calm down.

He rubbed his gloved hands. He'd given her long enough, hadn't he? Besides, he was a man of action; not petty unease. So Cullen retrieved the sword, replaced his own sword with it for the time being, and left his office.

The real question was: Where was he going to find Mercy?

It was nearing evening time, and the sun had already sunk past Skyhold's massive walls, but as Cullen walked the battlements he could still see the remnants of daylight just before it sank behind the mountain walls. And other than the few soldiers on guard duty who would salute him when he walked by, walking the battlements was peaceful. Normally it was also how Cullen would clear his mind. If he ever needed to rethink or reevaluate a decision—like his "occupation"—the battlements would be where Cullen could be found.

Mercy had said that she was there—at Skyhold—because she had faith. She then said she was going to let that faith guide her to a new occupation. That was it then. Mercy must have gone to Skyhold's Chantry to pray or ask Revered Mother Giselle for guidance.

It comforted Cullen to know that Inquisitor Trevelyan had had such a place made in Skyhold. Cullen knew the Inquisitor was not a firm believer that he was the Herald of Andraste, but the Inquisitor was always considerate of those around him. Skyhold's Chantry was a much needed place for most of the Inquisition's followers who did believe.

Cullen entered the Chantry Garden and saw that Mother Giselle was performing an evening Chant in front of the gazebo, where two torches were already lit in preparation for nighttime. As he searched for Mercy Calloway in the group gathered to listen, the coming nightfall urged Cullen to come closer. Mercy was not among the group. Most of the men and women there, however, did appear to be soldiers. "Commander Cullen," Mother Giselle saw and acknowledged him.

She then said to everyone else, "_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

"Commander Cullen has proven himself to be a worthy advisor to our Herald of Andraste. Let us keep him and the others who lead our cause in our prayers. Goodnight children," she completed the Chant. "May the Maker watch over us."

Most of the group departed with a thank you to Mother Giselle. A few even came up to Cullen and thanked or saluted him, making him slightly uncomfortable. He felt undeserving and he was not used to the attention that wasn't made by him giving orders.

After most had gone or went about their own business in the garden, Mother Giselle turned to Cullen. "The men and women of the Inquisition look up to you, just as they look up to our Inquisitor. It is nice to have you visit us, Commander. Just as it would be nice for the Inquisitor to visit." Cullen cleared his throat and Mother Giselle smiled. "I know Inquisitor Trevelyan is a busy man. And he is hesitant to take on the role as the Herald of Andraste. Still, it would be good for the Inquisition's followers to see our Inquisitor."

"You're upset with him?" Cullen prompted her.

"I will admit I am frustrated with Inquisitor Trevelyan," she answered. "For reasons I do not wish to discuss. Forgive me. It is best that the matter is forgotten. As for you, Commander Cullen, did you come to the Chantry Garden looking for someone? I did not neglect to notice your searching eyes as you arrived."

"Yes," Cullen told her. "I was hoping… Well, it doesn't matter what I was hoping, but perhaps you can tell me if you saw a woman visit the Chantry earlier? She would have been dressed as a recruit. Short height, dark brown hair. She may have looked… upset."

"You are speaking of the woman that fumed into the garden and then the Chantry itself," Mother Giselle knowledgeably said. "I did not see what she did in the Chantry, but I was told she pointed at the statue of Andraste and shouted: _'I will not go back!'_. I would have tried to comfort the woman, but she left before anyone could speak with her."

Cullen cleared his throat again. "Right. I apologize if she caused a disturbance, Revered Mother."

Mother Giselle arched an eyebrow at him and inquired, "Her distress was your doing?"

He nearly went into a defensive explanation, but Cullen stopped himself. Sighing, he proclaimed, "It had not been my intention to cause her distress. She was undeserving of it. For the most part."

With a motherly smile Giselle said, "The pressures of your work have caused you to convey your own distress onto another. This is understandable. Even so… Hopefully you do not allow pride to keep you from righting this wrong. Hopefully your intention of finding this woman is to right the wrong?"

"Of course, Revered Mother," Cullen assured her. "I was hoping she would be here, in the Chantry."

"It seems you are too late," Mother Giselle spoke with a considerate frown and bow of the head.

Cullen glanced down and scratched his neck. "I will continue the search in the morning, then, after I have had some sleep. If not, I suppose I can always have Leliana track the woman down. She's better at that sort of thing."

"Can you think of nowhere else to find someone who is distressed?" Mother Giselle said curiously, and somewhat slyly. "Specifically someone who would storm into the Chantry to shout at Andraste, then leave?"

He snickered. "You're implying I look for her in the Herald's Rest."

"Before it _is_ too late," Mother Giselle said with benevolent authority. She then nodded to Cullen and excused herself with, "I have some candles to light, but I look forward to seeing you at another Chant."

Cullen stepped away with a tired glower. Herald's Rest was not a place he frequented; he could count how many times he had been in Skyhold's tavern on one hand. He understood the tavern was a necessary luxury for Skyhold's inhabitants, so that after a hard day's work they could sit back, listen to music, and share a few rounds of ale with their companions. The friendly atmosphere of the tavern boosted morale, which Cullen found tremendously imperative to running an army. But Cullen, himself, did not enjoy socializing at the tavern.

He wasn't one to socialize much at all, unless it was required of him. He had absolutely dreaded the ball at the Winter Palace.

This feeling of introversion hit Cullen as he walked into the evening environment of Herald's Rest. It was decently crowded for the night; most of the tables were filled up. Laughter could be heard from the different corners. Maryden the bard was purely playing instrumental music, probably because with how busy it was she couldn't be heard over the volume of the patrons.

Cullen's first idea in finding her—if Mercy was in the tavern in the first place—was to ask the dwarven barkeep Cabot. It turned out to be unnecessary, because as Cullen approached the barkeep, he recognized Mercy Calloway sitting at the barkeep's table. She looked none the different, because she was still in the recruit uniform; yet she looked completely different, because her bun was now unfastened and her long brown hair fell over her armor well past her shoulders. It was longer than he had imagined—not that he had imagined much of her (he was trying to focus). But Cullen realized how uncommon it was to see a woman with long hair that wasn't a mage.

_Knight-Commander Meredith had long_—_No_!

He stopped himself from making the comparison; he forced himself to approach Mercy with nothing but returning her sword in mind.

Mercy was sitting next to and facing Iron Bull, presently waving her hands in the air in a storytelling manner, while holding a mug that she was not too interested in keeping from spilling out. "There iss juss no way iss da big," Cullen heard her slur to Iron Bull, who was leaning over the bar drinking from his own mug with a self-righteous smile across his face.

"You can find out for yourself," Iron Bull said with a laugh, before he noticed Cullen and acknowledged him with a perceptive grin.

As Mercy took another swig from her mug, Cullen tapped the shoulder of the soldier on the other side of her and asked to have the man's seat. The man, of course, immediately gave up the stool upon seeing who was asking for it. "Yes, Commander. Please. Take it."

Cullen felt bad that the man may have thought he was giving him an order, and tried to thank him, but the soldier was already running to the nearest corner of the bar to a particularly rowdy group of drinking soldiers. Momentarily after their friend joined them, the lot of them looked up at Cullen, wide-eyed and in astonishment.

"Hey there, Commander," Iron Bull sat up and said over Mercy's head. He towered over her by almost two and a half feet.

Mercy slowly turned her head in Cullen's direction, before she squinted at him as if she couldn't tell what she was looking at. Then she leaned in and with a wicked smile asked, "Haves you eard of tis dragoon in the Hint'r'lins, Commander? Mista Ion Bull insiss that id exiss."

"I've insisted that she call me _The Iron Bull_, but she refuses," Iron Bull said impassively. Mercy giggled in response.

"Well," Iron Bull said after finishing his mug in one swig. "Three out of four isn't bad, little mouse. This stuff is strong and I did not expect you to manage more than two drinks." He patted Mercy on the head. "We'll talk later. I think for now, I'll let you talk to the Commander. He looks like he needs the company."

Cullen gave Iron Bull the hint of a smile as Iron Bull got up from his seat and walked toward the back of the tavern where the Chargers were playing cards.

"Did you want a drink?" the barkeep asked Cullen.

"No," Cullen answered, in a don't-ask-me-again tone. The barkeep gave him an are-you-kidding-me stare before shrugging.

"I wants anunder one!" Mercy exclaimed.

"I'm cutting you off," the barkeep told her. "The Bull was paying for the ones you had before. You've got nothing now. I heard how you're out of the job."

Mercy whimpered and laid her head on the bartable away from Cullen. "Don re-mined me," she grumbled.

"Uh… Mercy?" Cullen had no idea how to start a conversation with her in her current state. "I was hoping I could talk to you. You left me your sword—"

"My sword!" she bellowed as she flung herself off the bartable, her head somehow landing on Cullen's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, but she did not make an effort to move. Cullen initially felt awkward and apprehensive, but smiled and even inwardly laughed as Mercy snuggled up to him like he was a pillow. She didn't seem to mind the armor. "Commander, you're so furry. Are you a werewoof? I grew up in Highever and there were always ss-scarry tales of werewooves."

Cullen chuckled, careful not to move so that Mercy toppled over completely. "Highever," he repeated. "I thought that might be where you're from. Your sword has the heraldry mark."

"It wus my father's sword," she said with a comfortable smile as she wrapped an arm around Cullen's to keep herself from falling over. "And then my brudder's. They both served the Couslands."

He knew that in a normal circumstance, Mercy was too close for his own comfort, but Cullen found himself looking down at her on his shoulder and arm, smiling. "And you thought to leave such an important sword with me?"

"I didn't think I'd be needing it again," she was speaking quieter and more carefully. "You are right about me not being suited for the army. I'm not a soldier like my father or brother. After they died and the Blight… Mudder forssed me into the Chan-tree." She had started to slur again, but she tried to slow down as she said, "I wuss on the path of becoming a cleric." Then she stopped, looking pained to speak anymore.

"Ugh," she eventually responded, pulling away from Cullen and resting her head back down on the bartable. "I don't think I'm drunk enough for tis conversation. The giddiness iss wearing off."

"What you're saying," Cullen began to ask. He was far too interested in her story to let her stop talking now. "Is that you left the Chantry to join the Inquisition?"

"Yess," she quickly answered. "I mean no," she just as quickly changed it. "I leff the Chantry becuss… I was miz-able. I leff over a year ahgo and went home for a bit. Then I heard about the Inquiss-shin, took the sword, and leff again."

Cullen leaned forward and placed his arms on the bartable, interlocking his hands in a thinking manner. He somewhat wished that he did have a drink now, but he wasn't about to get the barkeep's attention. "Why pick up the sword? Did you really want to fight?"

"Yess," she passionately replied. "For the longest time… " She actually paused to yawn. "That iss all I wanted to do. I am a survivor of Highever, Commander. You're from Ferelden. You know wut happened in Highever."

"I heard the stories, yes," he understood. He recalled what details he had heard about Rendon Howes takeover of Highever. He had heard Cousland Castle had been all but destroyed, and then that the people of Highever were persecuted as Rendon Howe tried to establish his authority over them. From Cullen's understanding, many had been executed.

There was silence as Mercy made herself comfortable on the bartable as if she was planning on falling asleep in front of everyone. As she closed her eyes, Cullen was quite sure that _was_ what she had planned. Her head lay close to him and she murmured, "Thank you for bringing back my sword, Commander Cullen. I'll be needing it now that I'm joining Bull's Chargers."

Cullen sat up in surprise. "Wait… What? Joining the Chargers?" Mercy groaned something and then turned away from him. "I don't think… " Cullen started, but Iron Bull returned from the back of the tavern.

"Don't worry, Commander," he told Cullen with a care-free smile. "I'll find a bed for her to fall into. The little mouse needs a good's night sleep."

"Bull, are you allowing Mercy to join the Chargers?" Cullen demanded.

"We talked about it," Iron Bull shrugged as he gathered Mercy into his arms. "This one has spirit," he expounded. "She may have a knack for causing disaster and trouble, but if that comes naturally to her, then it's also a talent." She seemed sound asleep in Bull's arms, blissfully unaware of what Bull was saying. "I'm glad she got a chance to talk with you," Bull spoke with meaning. "She respects your decision to dismiss her."

Iron Bull turned to take Mercy away to whatever bed he meant to put her in, but Cullen spoke-up with a thought that popped into his head. "Bull, can you withhold your offer to Mercy to join the Chargers for the time being? I would like the chance to… find a more suitable job for her. To make up for my harshness towards her earlier. It was unworthy of me."

"Sure," Iron Bull grinned. "She wasn't officially in the Chargers yet, anyway. She hasn't passed my second test. The first was to see how much alcohol she could hold. Not so much, it turns out." He laughed. "See you later, Cullen."

Cullen turned back to the bartable, calling, "Barkeep! I'll take that drink now. Give me a shot of your strongest liquor." No questions asked, barkeep Cabot poured Cullen a shot and put it down in front of him. Cullen took the shot in one immediate swallow, sealing his determination to help Mercy find a place among the Inquisition.

One that he could keep an eye on her.


	3. Chapter 3: Headaches

**Chapter 3: Headaches**

Mercy awoke not in a bed, but in a cot, flailing her arms as she tried fighting off the Templars that were dragging her to the chopping block for execution. Her body crashed into the floor, upturning the cot, and only as her face and screaming mouth hit the floor, did she realize that it had been a dream. Damn Templars were always in her dreams. Worse, lately the Templars in her dreams had red crystals growing out of their shoulders and backs, and when they spoke they sounded… possessed.

"Ah, the little mouse wakes up," a feminine and yet masculine voice said. Mercy's head was pounding, and she felt fuzzy on memory; she grumbled as she peeled her face from the wood floor and looked up. It was a fully armored Krem standing over her holding what looked like pants in one hand and a familiar sword in the other. Krem threw the pants at Mercy once she was sitting up straight—as straight as someone experiencing wooziness _could_ sit up.

"Why am I not wearing any pants?" Mercy inquired as she spat her own hair out of her mouth and through a sequence of rolls and thuds on the floor started tugging on the pants. "I didn't… Did I?"

"If you mean did you sleep with the Chief, the answer is no," Krem told her as he flipped the cot back over. "He doesn't take advantage of anyone who's drunk. Not in that way, anyway. Even if they do have pretty eyes."

Mercy caught herself smiling, but cringed when her head pounded in protest.

"No, you took your own pants off, screaming that they were on fire," Krem resignedly explained. By his weariness, Mercy could tell that Krem must not have gotten much sleep, and Mercy had a good guess as to why.

"None of us could get any shut eye with you losing it every so often," he confirmed Mercy's suspicion. "Oh, the Chief had tried putting you in a bed in the room where the rest of us sleep, but you kept rolling out of it. Hence the cot and the fact that you're now two rooms over. Do you always thrash and throw tantrums when you're asleep?"

"Only after I've been drinking," Mercy groaned before she smacked her lips, tasting her dry and horrid mouth in guilt. "Alcohol makes me… lose control."

"Could have fooled me," Krem exchanged as he regarded Mercy with a tired smile. From the floor, Mercy returned a faltering smile. "Here," Krem offered her the sword he was holding. "Commander Cullen wanted to make sure you got this back."

Mercy went on groaning as she stood up and accepted her family sword, almost dropping it as the weight of it took her hand. She cursed herself under her breath as she tried steadying it and then herself.

"You should work on that sword arm," Krem chuckled. "Or maybe try a dagger. A little mouse would be much better wielding something smaller. Or maybe a staff?"

The sword completely slipped from Mercy's grasp and she jumped after it. "A staff? What good would a staff do?"

"Maybe nothing," Krem answered with a carefree shrug and a sharp smirk. "Hey, now that you're up, the Chief wanted to see you. He's downstairs, running some Qunari exercises. If you don't want to get bashed in the head a couple hundred times, wait until he's done."

Before Krem left the room, he turned and remarked, "Did you know that you snore like a growling marbari when you're truly asleep?" He was chuckling again as he shook his head and left.

As soon as he was gone, Mercy dropped her sword again and sagged against the nearest wall. She stared at the sword and said, "Apparently the only one I'm truly fooling is me, myself, and I. You'd think with all the years of I've spent hiding what I am that I would have learned some self-control.

"…And now I'm talking to a sword. Maker preserve me. Andraste can bite my arse."

* * *

><p>"Did you hear, Josie?" Leliana said across the war table. It was morning, and the three advisors were waiting for their Inquisitor to arrive. "Our Commander Cullen was seen in Herald's Rest talking to a woman."<p>

"Maker preserve me," Cullen pleaded. "Don't start this shortly before the Inquisitor comes in. What if he hears you?"

"Are you blushing, dear Cullen?" Josephine teased, sashaying closer to him.

"Absolutely not," Cullen asserted as he stood taller, rather than continuing to sulk. "Why would I be ashamed that I was talking to a woman? I can talk to women. I'm talking to the two of them right now. I also speak to Cassandra on a regular basis. Just last week I had a decent conversation with the Champion of Kirkwall. There's also Scout Harding, Dagna, Enchanter Fiona—"

"All right, Cullen. Calm down," Leliana dissuaded him. "My, my, you are worked up today. Whatever is the matter?"

The door to the war room opened and Inquisitor Trevelyan stepped in saying, "Yes, do tell, Cullen. I would love to get caught up on my gossip." Maxwell walked up to the war table with a cheerful grin. His staff was strapped to his back; it looked as if he had spent the early morning hours practicing Rift magic with his trainer.

"Inquisitor," Cullen formally acknowledged Maxwell. "I am eager to get to work. There's no gossip in that."

"True," Maxwell said as he thoughtfully scratched his chin. He glanced over the war table, perhaps considering the work that had to be done, but then back at Cullen with a sly, deliberate smile. Wagging his finger he said, "But I want to hear about the woman you were talking to in the tavern." Upholding the smile, Maxwell clapped his hands before excitedly rubbing them together. "Gossip first, and then work."

Maxwell patiently smiled and stared at Cullen. By virtue of stubbornness, Cullen glanced over at Josephine searching for some kind of support. Josephine was hiding a smile as she pretended to look down her checklist, so Cullen looked to Leliana. Leliana was ferociously beaming.

Cullen reverted to sulking. Maxwell was going to have his way. The Inquisitor always had his way. As he should, Cullen knew, but that didn't mean Cullen was happy about it this time.

"I heard she was cuddling with the Commander," Leliana told Maxwell with such mischievousness that Cullen groaned and hid his flushed cheeks in a hand. Leliana wasn't wrong, not precisely; Cullen wasn't going to admit that, however.

"Leliana, surely you can give us more than that?" Josephine encouraged. "If you give us a grand tale of Cullen's romanticism, I could use that to start a circle of admirers for our Commander. It could pull quite a lot of influence with the ladies of the court. After his attendance to the ball, there have been requests for information on his lineage from a few interested parties at the Winter Palace."

"Feel free to use those requests as kindling," Cullen asserted. He felt a headache coming on.

Laughing, Maxwell said, "Well, I did a little more than _hear_ about the woman Cullen was in the tavern with. I did a little digging of my own and found out the woman's name is Mercy Calloway. And Cullen's on a mission to save her from the dangers of a soldier's life."

_How did Maxwell find that out_, Cullen wondered.

"He must _sincerely_ care about this Mercy Calloway if he wants to keep her out of danger," Leliana teasingly spelled out.

"Inquisitor, I must protest to the fact that we are even having a conversation about this… personal matter… at the war table," Cullen calmly but resolvedly said. "I demand my privacy," he added, shooting a frustrated glower at Leliana. "And I am eager to get to work," he resigned to repeat through lightly clenched teeth.

Maxwell embraced Cullen's urgency, and the Inquisitor's playfulness was abandoned for a more serious disposition. "To work," Maxwell nodded at Cullen, echoing what Cullen would usually say when the Inquisitor asked for something from his Commander.

To Cullen's relief, the next half-hour was spent discussing missions. Nothing more was said about Mercy Calloway. Or the Winter Palace, besides the mention of the support the Inquisition would now receive from the Orlesian Empire to fight Corypheus. Josephine was already using the support of the Empress and her new cabinet member Grand Duke Gaspard to win favor in smaller political affairs within Orlais.

Leliana was currently working on investigating Lord Enzo of Antiva. Her agents had discovered that Enzo was working with the Venatori, and had been sending _"volunteers"_ from Rialto to Red Lyrium mines. Probably the very same Red Lyrium mines that Cullen was having looked into.

Cullen was particularly keen to have the Inquisitor check out the local quarries of the village Sahrnia in Emprise Du Lion. He had heard a few unofficial reports (or more like Orlesian rumors) about what was going on in Sahrnia. Red Templars had been seen all over the place. But the Inquisitor had expressed that he would leave the investigation of the area for after the Peace Talks at the Winter Palace—ultimately, after they saved Empress Celene's life.

Now that the Peace Talks had succeeded with a little help from the Inquisition, and the Orlesian civil war was put on hold, Cullen encouraged Inquisitor Trevelyan to start looking in the direction of Emprise Du Lion. Maxwell agreed to have Scout Harding sent at the earliest opportunity.

Despite Cullen's effort to stay focused, during everyone else's turn to talk, he was having a difficult time thinking clearly. The headache that had started was getting worse. He had taken to leaning against the table as he struggled at staying calm. There was a tightening in his throat and hands as he suppressed his own panic. _Not now!_ He demanded from himself.

Cullen closed his eyes for only a moment, but when he opened them Leliana shared a glance that clearly read, _"Are you all right?"_ If Josephine noticed anything, she was exceptionally good at not showing it.

Maxwell, on the other hand, casted a very pensive gaze on Cullen before saying, "I think we should take a break. Some of us may not have even eaten breakfast," he emphasized as he patted his own belly. "I could go for a scone or two. Shall we meet at a later time?"

"Of course, Inquisitor," Josephine quickly agreed. She sashayed to the door. "Leliana, would you like to join me for a caffè latte?"

Leliana straightened and said, "_Blech._ I think not. You know I dread the stuff. But I would love to swap some gossip over a cup of black tea." She stepped to the door with Josephine, gave a quick glance at Cullen, who stood from the table with a repentant sigh. Then she and Josephine left chattering about Antivan drinks.

As soon as Josephine and Leliana were out of earshot, Cullen almost went into a full-blown apologetic explanation to Maxwell, but the Inquisitor spoke first.

"I ran into Iron Bull this morning," Maxwell initiated as he rubbed his chin watching Cullen.

"That explains it," Cullen quickly caught on. He wrung his gloved hands and scoffed. He was sweating from the withdrawal pain; he could feel it upon his brow. But there was no point in trying to hide something so obvious from the Inquisitor. "I'm sure Iron Bull told you all about my effort to save Mercy Calloway."

"Bull keeps more confidences than he lets on," Maxwell presented. "But in this case… I asked him about it, having heard that you went into Herald's Rest. I figured after this Mercy Calloway left you her sword that you would go and find her, try and return it to her. I'm sure that's what she intended when she left you the sword in the first place—a second chance."

"I'm not so sure," Cullen admitted, remembering Mercy's reaction to him trying to give it back.

Regardless of how drunk she had been, Mercy had seemed set on joining the Bull's Chargers. And Cullen remembered that the thought of Mercy being in a group of mercenaries that faced dangers every day, had made him feel protective over her, as if she was _his_ personal responsibility. Cullen knew that's how he really felt, too. He _wanted_ Mercy to be his concern.

It wasn't that he didn't trust the mercenary leader Iron Bull in taking care of his men; Cullen just felt that Mercy needed something different. Mercy needed something she wouldn't be swinging a sword against, or facing danger against. He had spent a majority of his night wracking his brain for an idea as to where he could put Mercy in the Inquisition, but nothing stuck out. In offering her a simple job, like a kitchen maid, Cullen knew Mercy would be ostentatiously offended. She was capable, but as to what, Cullen didn't have a clue.

"_I am_ sure," Maxwell stated with a complacent smirk, crossing his arms, bringing Cullen back to reality. "She's smart, this Mercy Calloway. Which is why I have come up with the perfect way to keep her out of danger for you."

Maxwell was wagging his finger at Cullen again, and Cullen couldn't help but look worried. "I trust your judgments, Maxwell. I truly do. But I would rather not involve the Inquisitor in my personal—"

"She's going to be your secretary, Commander."


	4. Chapter 4: That Poor Dummy

**Chapter 4: That Poor Dummy**

"I think you need one of those, don't you?" Maxwell had walked around the table and was patting Cullen on the shoulder, as someone would who was comforting a friend.

"A _secretary_?" Cullen repeated as a question, trying to assimilate the idea. He couldn't decide if it was a good or bad one. It met the requirements he had set in searching for a job for Mercy. But it met the requirements a little too much, Cullen thought. Meaning he didn't like the idea of working so closely with anyone.

"To do your clerical work," the Inquisitor elaborated. "And clean up that office of yours. Every time I visit your little corner of Skyhold, there seems to be more and more _clutter_ lying around."

"I don't believe this," Cullen snickered, even as he continued to sulk against the table. "The Inquisitor is telling me I need to clean my room."

"Yes," Maxwell said as he crossed his arms and faced a window. "It saddens me whenever I walk around Skyhold and realize it's incomplete. Holes remain in the roof, piles of rubble in corners," he was intentionally speaking in a theatrical in tone. "There are so many messes leftover from the previous occupants. I'm a completionist. I want to see Skyhold restored to its deserved glory. But it has to start with cleaning up our own messes," he now said with amusement. "That includes your office, Cullen."

"And you think I should hire Mercy to do it?"

"What better way to keep her out of harm's way than to put her near the Commander of the Inquisition, more or less, the entirety of every day," Maxwell conveyed to Cullen with empathy. "Unless you think she would make a poor assistant to the Commander of the Inquisition?"

"That's… not what I'm thinking," Cullen gruffly replied before pushing himself off the table. "She has clerical experience, I believe. She stated she was to be become a cleric before she left the Chantry."

"Mmm-hmm." Maxwell was smiling; his cheekiness was showing. "But I predict you're now going give me an objection to working closely with someone you conceivably have a lot in common with."

_In common with?_ The Inquisitor wasn't playing matchmaker, was he? It wouldn't go over very well if he was; Cullen wouldn't let it. Cullen could use an assistant—someone to sort through the papers and notes he left lying around—that much was true. Especially if Cullen had plans to further pursue the Red Lyrium trail left behind by the Templars at Therinfal Redoubt, perhaps with some field work of his own. However, Cullen would not stand idle while Maxwell tried to play connoisseur in his love affairs.

_Mercy is not a love affair_, Cullen admonished himself. He didn't have time for that sort of thing. Nor would it be fair to put the woman through Cullen's unstable state of mind—not with the lyrium withdrawals.

_Maker, where is this coming from_, Cullen was now fretting—realizing that he wasn't exactly objecting to the idea of romancing Mercy. If things were different and the world wasn't in turmoil, maybe he could think of Mercy in that way.

"Personally, Inquisitor," Cullen produced. "I don't think it's wise."

"Because of the lyrium withdrawals?" Maxwell was direct about his curiosity.

"Only one reason out of many," he answered Maxwell with reservation. He couldn't let Maxwell know that he was, in fact, attracted to Mercy—at least a little. His encounter with her at the tavern had proven that, he thought, because he now had a determination to see her settle into the Inquisition where he would continue to see her. But allowing Maxwell to learn more of Cullen's motivations would only encourage more teasing at the war table. It was better to let Maxwell think it was the withdrawals.

Maxwell turned to his Commander in concern and voiced, "Even the Divine had a left and right hand to extend her reach. Justinia worked closely with Leliana and Cassandra. There's no harm in giving Mercy Calloway a chance to do the same for you. She may prove to be invaluable to you." After patting Cullen on the shoulder once again, Maxwell headed for the door leaving Cullen be. But before exiting, he said the one last thing of, "Consider it, at least, Cullen."

By the time the door closed behind Maxwell, Cullen was smiling with admiration. The Inquisitor was right, of course. He was always right. And Cullen would dutifully consider Maxwell's idea for Mercy in his office, away from the war table where his only concern should be war.

But as Cullen headed for his office, lost in thought, he was abruptly stopped in the main hall by a callous, loud, and Nevarran, "Cullen!" He looked up and found Lady Cassandra stomping down the main hall, visibly irate as she charged toward him. It was an intimidating sight to see her singling him out, and he did not know what to do other than hold his ground as he ran through all the possible things he could have done to make the Seeker angry. He could think of none.

Everyone else got out of Cassandra's way before she pushed them out of the way. "_Commander Cullen_," she austerely said again, but adding his title, as she halted in front of him. "There is something on the training area that demands your attention." She then reached out grabbing Cullen by the arm, and with surprising ease dragged the ex-Templar toward the entrance of the main hall.

"What is this about, Lady Cassandra?" he pled as he watched the surrounding faces go by with startled and scandal-hungry expressions.

Outside, Cassandra released his arm and answered with a grunt. "Follow me, Commander, and you will see what this is about," she imparted, before moving off without him.

He followed the Seeker as she rushed toward the training area, the one past Herald's Rest. It wasn't difficult to see the problem as soon as they entered the area. Cassandra stopped a distance away from the little woman who was furiously trying to hack at a training dummy. When Cullen was close enough, he could hear the cursing that was endlessly erupting from Mercy Calloway's mouth between insults about Iron Bull and… him.

"I thought I'd get along with Bull's Chargers perfectly," Mercy screamed as she bounced her family sword off the training dummy. She couldn't seem to land an effective hit with a sword that weighed more than her arm. "_The_ Iron Bull likes to hit things. Andraste f**ker!" She finally landed a hit and the sword sliced through the neck of the dummy, sticking to the post underneath. "See! I. Can. Learn. To. Like. Hitting. Things, too!" she articulated each word with every attempt to pull the sword out of the post.

When it absolutely refused to budge under her grasp, Mercy started kicking the training dummy. "Take that! And that! And that, Commander Cullen!" After a barrage of kicks, she started at tearing the dummy with her bare hands, and throwing the straw from its innards by the handfuls.

"This is not acceptable," Cassandra said before turning around and speaking in hushed severity to Cullen. "This is somehow your doing, Commander. Stop her. Now. She's destroying my favorite training dummy." The Seeker then walked off the training area as if she had made a divine decree, which she expected to be fulfilled immediately.

Mercy was now jumping on the training dummy as she tried pulling her sword out of it again, using her feet as leverage, and still throwing out curse words. "Give me my sword, son of a Darkspawn! Sodding porch-dick!"

The sword was finally giving, and Cullen came running to catch Mercy before the sword completely gave. When it slipped, Mercy fell backwards with the sword in both hands into the prepared Cullen. But the woman screamed when Cullen touched her, dropped the sword, and started flailing her arms to get away. Cullen fought to hold on, not wanting to drop her. "Back! Back!" she growled as she struggled to land a punch with her eyes closed. "Or I will go wer—"

Mercy fell silent and motionless when she realized who it was.

"Lady Mercy," Cullen offered a respectful greeting. He kindly and gently set her down now that she wasn't fighting him, neglecting to let go as she looked up at him with her bright eyes. The smile that formed on his lips was compulsive.

She cagily regarded him, before she pushed and pulled away. "Don't call me that. I'm no lady of a court." Cullen stood as she did—Mercy scrounging up her sword. "I'm nothing at all, all right? You made sure of that! Whatever you told Iron Bull worked. He won't let me into the Chargers. They left not too long ago with Scout Harding's group, Bull promising my day would look up at some point. Bull… shit!" she swore lunging at the training dummy with her sword. Her swing was more controlled this time, and successfully scathed what was left of the dummy before her. "There's nothing promising about being rejected. Twice."

"This is my fault," Cullen poorly stated, feeling terrible. "I mean… I'm… sorry. Yes," he tried again. "I told Bull to hold off his offer to you. I wanted… "

Mercy had stopped raging, giving Cullen her full attention. She wasn't in recruit armor anymore, but a loose pale-green tunic and belted brown trousers. It looked fondly farmhand—Cullen liked the modesty to it. And he so liked her hair down, no matter how unkempt it was. Though he knew Mercy probably hadn't thought too hard about how she looked this morning.

He had paused to gaze at her, turning away in embarrassment when he gazed too long. "I have a job offer for you," Cullen finally got out. "It would seem I'm in need of a secretary—someone with clerical experience. The paperwork is piling up in my office, and it would do me a great service if I could have an assistant sort through it for me—help me remain organized. There may even be a time when I am needed on the field and I'll need someone to remain here to keep my office managed."

Mercy let her sword tip fall to the ground; she stared at Cullen and then past him in reflection. Then her head dropped. "That sounds… wonderful, Commander," and Cullen's heart raced with elation, nervousness, and excitement all at once.

"But I must decline your offer," she said, looking back up with an impassive expression. She tied her sword to her belt and trudged past a befuddled Cullen. "Thank you for the consideration," she said without stopping her trudge. "It was unexpected, but… appreciated."

_What is happening?_ He watched Mercy walk towards Herald's Rest, beyond understanding the rejection he had just received. It wasn't right. It was not supposed to happen this way. "Wait!" he called and ran after her, touching her elbow. "Mercy, what can I do to make up for what I've done?"

She barely acknowledged him, staring at his gloved hand on her elbow. "Nothing," she murmured. "I will return to the Chantry in Denerim. The danger for me there has most likely subsided." She turned to go, Cullen almost reaching for her, trying to grasp for something more than what she had given him.

Cullen rubbed his brow. "This is not what I expected, either. It was the Inquisitor's idea to ask you… I thought… He's usually right about… "

"The Inquisitor wants me to be your secretary?" Mercy inquired, reappearing in front of Cullen, looking up at him with wider eyes than he had seen.

"It was his idea, yes," Cullen admitted more freely. "Does that matter?" He was caught off guard by her closeness and glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

Mercy knowingly smiled at him. "The Herald of Andraste wants me to be your secretary, and you're asking if that matters?"

"Oh, right," Cullen understood.

"Right," Mercy agreed. "I take back what I said… the bit about declining your offer. Although… I'll need some time to think about my official answer. Can you keep the offer open for a few days?"

"You're the only candidate," Cullen replied, attempting at wit. "The offer will stand until you officially decline."

"Excellent," Mercy clapped. Then she clapped Cullen on the arm. "Thank you, Commander. I'll be back in a few days."

"Where are you going?" Cullen asked after her as she started her way again.

"I need to see a man about a dog," Mercy bizarrely replied.

As she disappeared into Herald's Rest, Cullen went over what had just happened in his head. Once more, Mercy had left him confused and concerned for her well-being. She was the strangest individual he thought he had ever encountered, but he also realized… Mercy reminded him a lot of Inquisitor Trevelyan—the way she clapped and then clapped him on the shoulder. Though Maxwell played at being innocent, a lot of the time he was truly being cunning. Cullen couldn't quite tell if Mercy was cunning, or genuinely… a mess.

Cullen was half tempted to have one of Leliana's people follow Mercy around to see what she would be up to for the next few days. It seemed unnecessary, however. He would have plenty of time to get to know Mercy when she returned and started her job as his secretary. _If she returns_, he reminded himself.

He wanted her to return.

* * *

><p>Maxwell entered Cassandra's little nook in Skyhold. The Seeker was sitting at her table, ignoring her plate of food, and reading the <em>Swords and Shields<em> book that Varric had given her at Maxwell's request.

"Skipping practice today to do some reading?" Maxwell leaned in over her shoulder to tease her. "This is your third read of this book, Lady Cassandra. Should I be striving to be like the men in Varric's novels so you'll pay more attention to me?"

"_Ugh_," Cassandra expressed as she rolled her eyes, but smiling at Maxwell all the same. She put the book down. "I wouldn't have skipped practice today, but there was an angry woman in my way."

"Are you describing yourself?" Maxwell mockingly wondered. Cassandra looked about to throw her book at him, but he smiled and took a seat across from her. He began picking and eating the food on her plate. "This angry woman you mention, Cullen's doing, right?"

Cassandra glared at him. "I am not surprised you would know about it."

"Word travels fast in Skyhold," Maxwell shrugged. "That poor dummy," he then issued, knowing it had been Cassandra's favorite.

"Inquisitor, are you speaking of the Commander or the training dummy?" she reproachfully asked of him.

Maxwell laughed; he enjoyed his chats with Cassandra. He enjoyed everything about her. "I hardly think Cullen is a dummy. Sometimes, though, he needs encouragement. His withdrawals are worsening. He needs a decent distraction so he can endure."

"It was never going to be easy," Cassandra stated with concern. "Did you have something in mind, to help our Commander?"

"I do, and you saw it," Maxwell happily relayed. "She destroyed your favorite training dummy."

There was silence as Cassandra thought about it. "I do not approve of your scheming," she freely admitted. "A relationship could prove to be devastating for Cullen. He has duties he must attend to."

Maxwell sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I'm not convinced you believe that. I did recently learn you were a romantic, after all." He rubbed his chin and smiled at Cassandra as she continued to glare at him with disapproval. "If I properly courted you, my lady, would you be more understanding?"

"You intend to court me? You of all people?" Her mouth hung open in bewilderment. "It is impossible."

He got up out of the seat and said, "We shall see, Lady Cassandra. I'm going to enjoy sweeping you off your feet."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Ick. Daylight savings has ruined my sleep schedule. Oh well. Finished up this chappie.


	5. Chapter 5: A Compassionate Scarecrow

**Chapter 5: A Compassionate Scarecrow**

Mercy clung to the strap on her satchel as she observed the gatehouse, staring out to the drawbridge and then the barbican beyond. One step outside Skyhold and she may never come back. The debate had been galumphing through her mind since she decided that she needed to go outside of Skyhold, at least for a little while. Because when she had made her first step into Skyhold, she could feel the magic that lived in the rock foundation, seeped into the walls, and hung in the air. Skyhold was hostage to a powerful magic that existed long before it did. It astounded Mercy how the mages did not seem to notice or mind.

The magic did bother Mercy. It was a constant tingling on the back of her neck—she was that sensitive to it. It choked her when she focused on it.

The moment she had stepped into Skyhold she had wanted to leave, because she felt that the ancient magic would consume her—or take her hostage, because of what she was. In large quantity, magic had a way of amassing even more magic—she was told that once. Mercy was afraid she would be sucked into the magic and lose control of the magic that bound her. It was the fear of someone who had been hiding what she was her entire life.

Her faith kept her from initially running away from Skyhold. Mercy so strongly believed in the Inquisition. She so strongly believed in the Inquisitor. She needed to. Andraste's protection and the idea of hope had become an appalling invention to Mercy until the day she entered a tavern with the intention of drinking herself to death, and before that end was reached she left upon hearing a minstrel sing about the Herald of Andraste closing the Breach. The Inquisition suddenly became Mercy's one purpose in life. The Inquisitor became her new Andraste.

No matter that others called him the Herald of Andraste; Mercy believed Inquisitor Trevelyan was holier than the named Bride of the Maker. She supposed that made her no longer Andrastian. What would it be called? Maxwellian? Mercy had never been a proper Andrastian, anyway—not by the Chantry's definition. She believed many things, some by default, but to believe Andraste was the only one who would ever catch the Maker's eye was not one of them.

There was also that becoming a cleric meant the Chantry wanted Mercy destroying historical documents for the reason that the documents were blasphemous.

It crushed Mercy. Written word had been the only thing that kept Mercy rational when she was younger. Her brother would sneak books and scrolls out of Highever Castle just for her. Her heroes were in history. To destroy such things—to destroy documents that shed light on heroes… It didn't make sense. She could never believe everything that the Chantry preached, not when she knew what they did to hold power.

Yet Mercy was forced to go along with her Chantry role, so she could stay hidden among the very people who would see her dead if they knew what she was. She had help, of course. Without the Templar she left Highever with during Howe's butchery of everything she had come to know, Mercy would be dead.

Her life had always depended on others showing mercy toward her. Mercy always wondered if their shown mercy had something to do with what she possessed.

The caravan she was going to leave Skyhold along with was finally ready. With the two horse-drawn carts in the middle and several Inquisition guards at the lead, the caravanners emptied the gateway house one by one, toward the barbican. Mercy was going to stay at the back of caravan, keeping to herself while wearing the hood on her traveling cloak, and a scarf around her neck and face underneath.

As soon as she stepped outside the gatehouse onto the drawbridge, Mercy felt some of Skyhold's magic lift off her chest. She smiled with relief and felt more confident about stepping away for a few days. It would let her breathe easier as she truly considered Commander Cullen's offer. Or if she was going to come back at all. She was afraid of what it meant to become closer to another Templar.

Mercy immediately noticed that as she followed the caravan… _she_ was being followed. She couldn't see it, but she sensed it. Because it wasn't human. Then again, maybe it was, because it made footsteps. Spirits wouldn't; outside the Fade they usually manifested as wraiths or demons—most without feet. And Mercy found it unlikely that she would be the only one to notice a demon upon exiting Skyhold. Hopefully.

Whatever it was, it did not feel malevolent, and Mercy decided to ignore it unless it made itself known. It wouldn't be the first time she was haunted by a spirit, she sadly remembered. It had just been so long. Living with Templars in the Denerim Chantry had lessened her encounter with spirits drastically. It's why she hid among the Chantry and Templars to begin with.

Nearly an hour went by before the caravan had made it into the valley below Skyhold where the Inquisition's troops were camped on the banks of the icy river. When the caravan stopped to hand out a few blankets and exchange information with the soldiers, Mercy paused to look back and finally address her stalker.

There was no one there.

But the presence of something not human remained. It was close-by, she could feel it. And away from the hold of Skyhold's ancient magic, Mercy could feel out more about whatever was following her. It felt like an unfamiliar song that was being pulled from the Fade, not by borrowed purpose as the magic that bound Mercy was, or forced or lost purpose as it was with demons, but by pure purpose.

It was an extraordinary sensation—an extraordinary spirit to be able to exist outside the Fade without a host. She was curious as to what form a spirit of pure purpose would take without a host. It would have to be something to do with what kind of spirit it was, she assumed.

The caravan started to move again and Mercy turned to follow it; she ran into something solid and fell backwards.

"You think I'm extraordinary," the _something_ said.

Mercy pulled her hood off and stared at the spirit in front of her. It looked like a human boy, in a strange scarecrow-like outfit; which only made it startling, as if some scarecrow had become possessed and followed her. "You're what's following me?" she said through her scarf. "I thought you'd be a kitty cat. Or maybe a fox. I'd prefer a fox. I don't get along with cats." She attempted to heave herself up and off the cold dirty ground.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the spirit said reaching down to help the rest of the way. She took its hand mostly out of curiosity to feel its realness. It was a real boy, but in essence it felt like a spirit. Though, she couldn't meet its gaze to be able to tell more, because he was hiding underneath a large brimmed hat. It was easy enough to see under the brim by stepping a little closer, because the spirit boy was taller than she was. Underneath his blonde bangs, his pale blue eyes were wide and observant. "Your head is loud," the boy ominously voiced.

She pulled her scarf away from her face and said, "Aren't the heads of most of us loud?"

"Yes," it diligently answered. "But you're loud because there's more than one voice. I cannot make out what either one is saying."

"You noticed that, did you?" She crossed her arms and let out a sigh that could be seen on the cold air. "Why are you following me, scarecrow spirit?" she whispered, but a few of the nearby soldiers were already watching. Mercy quickly pulled her hood back over her head. "We must keep walking if we are to appear normal."

"They won't remember seeing me," the spirit boy said as he kept next to Mercy.

"They will remember seeing me," she contested with amusement.

"Not if I make them forget you too," he quickly answered back.

Mercy stopped and stared at him again. "I guess a gift like that makes sense if you can reach into people's heads." She pulled the scarf back around her face and continued in the direction the caravan was going.

"You are a puzzle," the boy told her as they now walked together. "I cannot see clearly into your head. I know you need help, but I cannot see where the help is needed. You are a double-edged blade. Sharp on one side, dull on the other. Yet you do not use the sharp side to cut, you use the dull side to deflect."

She removed her scarf again and replied, "If I let you into my head, the sharp side _would_ cut you, scarecrow spirit. Be glad there is mercy between it and you."

"I wish you did not think I looked like a scarecrow. Scarecrows are made to scare. I do not want to scare. I only want to help."

"Scarecrows do help. Farmers," she slackly enlightened. "But I am no farmer, and you are no scarecrow."

"Are you a demon?" the spirit boy asked so unknowingly that Mercy laughed.

But she didn't answer the question. She didn't know how to answer. Instead, she returned the questions, "Have you never encountered anyone that can block your ability before, Spirit? Do I confuse you that much?"

"You're different. How do you do it?"

"It's amazing what a mage and a Templar can learn to do when they work together," she grumbled under her breath. She knew it would be a mistake, but let it slip.

"Rory."

"How sad that is," Mercy was overcome with frustration upon hearing the name. "My memories are so strong and vivid of him that you can steal his name from me when I'm actively trying to keep you out of my head." Her nose crinkled as she felt too much Fade surrounding the two of them. "Are you going to continue to haunt me?"

She foresaw that it would be a trying and further headachy day if he did. The opportunity to ward the spirit boy away was just not there at the moment. She would have to do it away from prying eyes, if she wanted her magic to remain secret. It would be nice if _Rory_ was still around do it for her.

"He became a Red Templar," the spirit boy emphasized.

Mercy's hands clenched at her sides. "I fear that I've avoided the Fade for so long that the Maker has sent you to remind me what awaits me there."

"I can ease the pain," the spirit said with encouragement. "By making you forget, it will make it easier. I can lessen the burden by making you forget him."

"What?!" Mercy stopped. She turned to the spirit boy finally asking herself: What kind of spirit was he?

As she studied him, she allowed him a real glimpse into her head.

"The girl who never would have had the chance," he started speaking what he saw. "They gave you a protector. They bound you to it. Mercy. Regardless, the Calloways became your family. Years of hiding, of not knowing. Snippets of truth stolen from books and Aedan's mouth. Then Howe came. Father, Brother, and Aedan paid the price. You burned the ones who tried to take what was left—burning, churning, and then bile. Mother found out. She was afraid and didn't know how to protect you. She took you to the Templars…"

Mercy felt the hurt and all the memories rushing forward, but allowed him to push further.

"Then Rory. His innocence, his faith. He was your strength. He protected you from this world and the other. Years at the Chantry, but it was him that held your faith and your hands. You never got a chance to tell him you loved him before there was more bloodshed. The loss of his innocence. He became red. Red like nightmares. He changed. He became the poison he protected you from. He tried to change you, too, but you were afraid. You—"

"Stop!" she demanded and the air rippled around them. The spirit boy reached up and covered his ears as if she was screaming at him. She thought she would be able to handle letting him into her head, but tears were stinging her eyes. The pain had been made anew as he pulled more and more memories, compelling Mercy to lose control and pull power from the Fade she felt around the two of them.

Panicking at what she had just done, Mercy pulled her scarf tighter around her and ran. Maybe no one noticed, she repeated to herself over and over again as she kept running, paying little heed to where her feet were carrying her. Maybe no one noticed that she had used the fragments of Fade around them to ward the spirit boy away. Maybe only another mage would have noticed, and she knew there were no mages among the caravan. Nor among the Inquisition's soldiers shortly behind.

Her feet took her up a snowy slope, but she determinedly climbed it with the adrenaline of panic and grief coursing through her. Only at the top of the hill did she collapse, allowing hot tears to run down her cheeks and melt the snow underneath. She cried for minutes, until she couldn't remember why she was crying.

Then she pulled herself up into a prayer stance, and began a prayer.

"Maker, forgive my lack of strength. Show me the path so that I may walk it. Give me the strength so that if that path takes me into the Fade that I may face the horrors that await me there. Don't let me be alone. Let Mercy—"

"I made it worse," someone said somewhere near. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

She kept her eyes closed and took a breath. She had forgotten—she had allowed herself to forget. Now she remembered, and whispered, "It's okay. I don't know if you can understand, Spirit, but everyone who has ever protected me has ended up dead. It is my burden to remember their faces—to remember everyone who died because they took pity on me in the first place. Rory's face, especially, must always haunt me. Or I will only make the same mistakes again."

"But you have to make it better," the spirit argued with her. "Forgetting Rory will make room for something else. If you forget Rory, then there will be a place for Cullen."

From her knees, Mercy hotly chuckled. "Is that what this is about? You see the fear I have of becoming closer to Commander Cullen? And you want to help me see past that fear?"

"Cullen would not be a mistake," the spirit boy said so assuredly that Mercy was speechless. "I will not take your memory of Rory because you do not want me to, but you must take the job Cullen has offered you. Then the healing for the both of you can begin."

She stood, opened her eyes, and gazed at the spirit before her. A spirit and a boy. Why would a spirit become a boy?

It was sympathy, Mercy realized. The spirit took the form of a human out of sympathy, so that it could better understand the real world. The spirit boy was nothing but understanding—the need to understand and help. It had tried to help by offering to make her forget her painful memories. It wanted to carry the burden of her pain so that she didn't have to. It was kindness to an extreme—a naïve kindness, but kindness nonetheless.

"Spirit, is it too much to ask your name?" she whispered.

"You want to remember me?" the spirit asked in surprise. "You _do_ want to remember me," he swiftly interpreted her feelings as she gazed at him. "What if I don't want to be remembered?"

"You don't like to be remembered, because being remembered means the potential to cause pain," Mercy expressed, answering his question with the ideology. She smiled at the spirit, now fully understanding what she was looking at. "It's not every day I meet a spirit of compassion."

"You… understand," the spirit boy said with amazement. "Like Solas and Maxwell."

"She certainly seems to know more about spirits than most," a strong, knowledgeable and male voice stated with conviction. Behind the spirit boy, a bald elfman was coming up the slope. He carried a staff which he was using as a walking stick and he had a pack on his back. It appeared as if he had been hiking. His clothes were beige and close-fitting, but there was a green fur-lined trench-vest over it being held down by a large leather belt. He wore a necklace that was the jawbone of some vicious creature.

"Solas," the spirit boy said excitedly. "You came back."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> I know this chapter isn't humorous. Not as much as I could have made it. But after learning that the beloved Sir Terry Pratchett passed away (3-12-15), I was not in a funny mood. I would not have done his humor justice.

But I did feel compelled to write _something. _This is what poured out of me. Hope it is liked.


	6. Chapter 6: Safety in Numbers

**Chapter 6: Safety in Numbers**

There was something about _Solas_ that made Mercy wince—the Fade, it followed him, more so than other mages. Mercy presumed this meant he was a powerful mage. The Fade around a mage could say a lot about the mage. How they pulled at it—what they did with it afterwards. Solas, however, had an aura of fade that he neither pulled at nor pushed away. He allowed it to be pure.

Quintessentially, it was the same magic that lived in Skyhold. Frightening, but curious to Mercy.

Mercy also felt a natural dominance to Solas' presence which was carefully hidden by characteristics she would not come to know unless she got to know Solas—Mercy trusted her instincts and relied on first impressions when it came to encounters with other mages.

"I could not abandon everything now," Solas told the spirit boy, who appeared genuinely happy that the elfman had returned from whatever venture. "I must endure."

"But you are still not happy," the spirit boy replied. He stared at the elfman with the same compassion Mercy saw when he was feeling out _her_ emotions. She understood that as a spirit of compassion, the boy was now feeling out this elfman's emotions. "It hurts and you are angry. You want to stay angry. Letting go, though. You will let go if it means helping Maxwell."

"He is a true friend. To us both," the elfman told the spirit boy. "We must protect our true friends."

"Yes," the boy agreed. Solas receptively smiled at him, before putting a critically observant eye on Mercy. "You want to speak with her alone," the boy must have read from Solas' mind. Unlike Mercy, Solas seemed to allow the spirit of compassion to freely read his thoughts. "You have questions for her," the boy then revealed on Solas' behalf.

Solas smiled more furtively, and asked of the spirit boy, "Will you allow me to speak with your new acquaintance alone?"

The spirit boy regarded him with a long stare. Then, quite suddenly, the spirit boy defensively said, "She wants to remember me," as if the Solas had said something differently. "Not many _want_ to remember me."

"I know," was all Solas replied with.

Accepting the reply and complying with Solas' request, the spirit boy started his descent down the slope to leave them alone. Before he got far, he stopped, halfway turned, and said, "It's Cole. That is my name."

Mercy smiled, bowed her head, and said, "Thank you, Cole. I will remember you."

As Mercy watched Cole walk down the hill, Solas watched _her_—she felt his flinty stare studying her. When Cole eventually disappeared, as if he had never been there, Mercy closed her eyes, sighed, and then reopened them. She remembered Cole; she had not been so sure if she would. But then…

She would not give up the memory of her first encounter with a spirit of compassion.

Mercy now met the eyes of the intensely focused Solas. Her smile fell away. "I am Solas," he made introduction not out of kindness, but because it was expected of him. He knew that she had already observed his name from Cole.

"The one who has been painting the fresco on the walls of the rotunda," Mercy showed where else she recognized his name. "It's magnificent and powerful," she stated, meaning the fresco. "I should have known the artist was an elf. Humans can never seem to capture elegance in their artwork as well as elves… "

Cheeks getting hot, Mercy became uneasy under Solas' unfaltering, pinched stare. Her eyes darted to their surroundings as she struggled to at least appear calm. The Fade felt as if it was pulling at her, urging her to pull back. If she wasn't careful, she would end up losing control again. She could only assume that her display of pulling at the Fade before was what encouraged Solas to climb the hill and investigate the source.

"The fresco is also reminiscent of ancient Tevinter," she began rambling under his scrutiny. "Definitely more elven, but… I think you are very well studied to be able to apply both styles, and yet make it your own. I wish I had the artistic ability that you have… "

"It appears you are well studied, as well," he said, a subtle sneer shadowing his lips. It was not a compliment, by any means. It was an observation. Mercy bit the inside of her lip and frowned, waiting, but he continued watching her, perhaps making more observations, but silently.

What was he waiting for? _If he has something to say about me, why isn't he saying it?_

_Fine_, she thought. If Solas was going to inspect her, she was going to allow him do it properly—with Mercy standing at attention. Closing her eyes, she shook her head, threw back her hood, and straightened her posture. As she boldly stretched her chin and neck out, she then opened her eyes.

This seemed to amuse Solas, because his expression changed to a wry smile. He took several steps toward her and then around her, pretending to be lost in some critical thought. Then he walked back before Mercy leaning in so that he was inches from her face. His nose briefly flared as he breathed in—he sniffed her. Then he took step back, considered, and… Broke into lighthearted and happy laughter.

The immediate response from Mercy was embarrassment. But as she watched Solas…

Agitation started. "Laughter is not the usual reaction I get out of others," she declared.

"I imagine not," Solas said with delight after his laughter ceased.

"It's refreshing from the pity that most take on me, but… I don't understand. Are you merely relieved, because you do not find me as dangerous as you thought? Or do you find me so pathetic that I am a joke to you?"

"There is no doubt in my mind that you are dangerous," he said straightening his face. "It's unwise to believe that any apostate is not dangerous." Mercy inadvertently scowled at the word apostate. "But you mistake my joy for arrogance," he claimed as he congenially smiled down on her.

She crossed her arms and kept to her scowl. "You're not doing a very good job of explaining."

His eyes widened with more gusto, before he turned away and walked toward the center of the hill. "Come," he said, urging her to follow with an excited wave.

Mercy glanced around as if there would be anyone around—maybe Cole—to disagree with following. Obviously, she and Solas were alone. So she decided that she would follow and learn more about the elf. Solas was incredibly impressive—they wouldn't allow just anyone to paint a fresco inside Skyhold. He was also most certainly a powerful mage—the Fade that surrounded him was proof of that.

As she followed his snow-prints, a distinct feeling of companionship fell upon Mercy. She felt that if Solas started to run, she would run after him, and that's all they would do… Run for hours. Run for the heck of it. Run until they collapsed of exhaustion. It was a silly feeling. Yet it was the most freeing feeling she had ever possessed.

She stopped in her tracks. "You don't even know my name," she said behind him.

Solas stopped, too, and looked thoughtful for a moment. "No, I don't," he seemed amazed at the thought. "I didn't think I needed it. Now I see that I do. Of course I do. Forgive me. I momentarily forgot civilized manners in my excitement."

"My name is Mercy," she told him with a grin.

"_Enanelas_," Solas replied with.

"This is the part where I confess I don't speak Elvish," she said scratching the back of her neck, and now faking her grin. She was well studied, but she was not _that_ well studied.

"Nor did I expect that you did," he answered, leaning in on his staff with forbearance. "_Enanelas_ loosely translates to mercy. It more closely translates to _blessing of sorrow_. I am correct in assuming you were named after the act of mercy?"

Mercy cleared her throat before replying, "Partially."

"I see. There is more to the story." Solas curiously regarded her before glancing upward and observing the sky. "My intention was to return to Skyhold today. I wish to delay my return." A moment of darkness and perhaps confusion passed over Solas. Then it lifted and he smiled, stood straighter with his staff, and offered his hand to Mercy. "Travel with me. Seldom have I gotten the chance to hear the story of someone so similar to myself. I want to hear every bit of it. Every detail down to how many hairs your head had as an infant."

A snort escaped Mercy's mouth and nose. Everything about the moment was the most outlandish thing Mercy had ever heard and seen. Besides the one about the Templar that was willing to travel to Denerim with an apostate. Or, how about the one where said Templar secretly kept said apostate alive and hiding as a chantry sister in Denerim. Oh, and there was Mercy's favorite: the one about a family who was willing to adopt a possessed werewolf child.

"Sure," Mercy agreed. Her head was spinning. It had to be the Fade getting to her. "I mean… Why not? I would love to travel with a complete stranger and tell him my life's story." It sounded sarcastic, but she took a hold of Solas' hand.

The grin that formed on both their faces was inhuman—they were wolfish.

* * *

><p>Solas watched Mercy sleep, her head near his lap as he sat by the fire in contemplation. They had made camp before nightfall. A majority of their day and then night had been spent speaking about spirits, the Fade, and what Mercy had to do with any of it. She had told Solas everything, just as he had asked.<p>

He briefly caressed Mercy's head, as a parent would to their child. Solas would make sure she would sleep soundly tonight. It would be easy enough to hold back the Fade that slipped into her head whenever she slept, because she was unable to stop it herself as she slipped into slumber.

The nightmares she lived with could not be easy. Nightmares that were wrought from a part of her soul that had been taken, chained and caged—held prisoner in the Fade. A part of soul that called to her, but she had been trained to push it away and treat it as an evil thing.

Mercy had no idea what she was meant to be. She knew what she was, but she had no idea that it was something to be proud of. That she had been denied her bloodright. That she was meant to be a free spirit with the pack. To hunt together, to sleep together, to breathe together.

The _Song of the Wild_ was her bloodright.

But that part of her was trapped, held back in the Fade by a Spirit of Mercy. Because the Couslands, who found Mercy as a child, believed the Song of the Wild was a curse, not a blessing. Time had twisted the gift Fen'Harel had bestowed upon a few of his people into a curse.

They were kin, Solas and Mercy. Or more like, Fen'Harel and her.

Mercy didn't know she was half-elf; Elven blood was the only way for the Song of the Wild to exist in her. Fen'Harel had only bestowed the ability to naturally transform into wolf-people to a few of his elven kin—those who despite his protest not to be worshipped, wanted to follow him. So he made them _Fenlen—wolf children_. They were his family. Together they sang the _Song of the Wild_.

But long ago humans deemed the _Fenlen_ werewolves—creatures possessed by demons—abominations.

Those elves, true _Fenlen_, had since been hunted and killed.

Mercy was something that Solas had believed gone—lost like so many other things. Grief of that loss had convinced him that perhaps the gift he had bestowed so long ago had been a mistake like so many other hopes and aspirations he had when he was younger. His gifts so often unintentionally caused pain and death.

But here Mercy was. One of his own children was alive—had survived. She was a lost pup with no pack, but she had survived.

Should he tell her? Should he banish the Spirit of Mercy that had been protecting her since birth in order to restore her bloodright that been taken from her? Should Solas take her in so that she could know what it was to live among the pack and hear the _Song of the Wild_.

No, he did not have the right. Mercy had made it this far as she was. Tormented, but surviving. He had no right to change that. Because he could not promise that giving her the truth would improve her life. It could very well destroy it.

These Couslands, the ones who bound Mercy to the Spirit of Mercy may have been right. They saved her from what the world had become. They gave her a chance at survival in a world that would hunt the free hunting spirit to extinction.

Mercy's survival meant… Well, Solas now wondered if there were others. He had believed the _Fenlen_ to all be wiped out, but if one could survive, maybe more. He would have to investigate when all was said and done with Corypheus; when his time with the Inquisition would be at an end.

There was a movement in the air before Cole stepped out of the shadow. He silently took a seat next to Mercy and stretched out his legs as a relaxed child would. "You let her sleep. She will have no red nightmares tonight." He looked at Solas and expressed, "She feels less like me when she sleeps and more like… herself."

"The Spirit of Mercy that resides in her is more active when she's awake," Solas explained. He was always happy to teach Cole, to pass on knowledge. It is what he wished he could do for Mercy, now. But he couldn't. She may be his lost kin, but the world was too cruel to allow them to be a family. There was too much else going on; Solas had another task he must see to. Corypheus was still out there with _his_ orb.

"When _Enanelas_ is asleep," Solas went on explaining. "The part of her that is trapped in the Fade takes residence in her dreams. But her mind interprets it as a hostile force, because that is what she has been told and trained to do."

"Running from herself. Never truly being herself. Being near you, though, it makes her feel what she's supposed to be. She likes the feeling. For now. Until she understands what it is. What happens when she learns that the feeling is what she was running from in her dreams? What happens if she is consumed by the feeling? You've opened a door for her, Solas. What if she chooses to go through it?"

Solas considered his friend's questions carefully. The questions were not just Cole's, but questions Cole had pulled from within Solas.

"I cannot make a promise I know I cannot keep," Solas spoke from a broken heart. "I can only help for as long as I am here."

"I want to help her, too," Cole stated, with more certainty than Solas. "How can I help? I cannot see clearly into her head."

"We must keep her secret for her," Solas replied to him. "Harm could come to her if anyone were to learn of what she is. She does not have the gift of making others forget as you do. They would see her as an abomination and there would be consequences."

"You and I have the protection of Maxwell," Cole offered. "What if she had his protection, too?" The question stirred Solas' mind and Cole noted the feeling aloud. "You do not think Maxwell is ready. You worry that he would see Mercy as a demon even though he let me stay, accepted me as a spirit."

"You take the form of a boy," Solas quickly remarked. "Mercy's alternate form would not be seen as innocent as a human boy. She would be seen as a monster to all who do not understand. If Maxwell can be made to understand, then perhaps… But it is not for us to tell him. Only if _Enanelas_ chooses to reveal her secret."

"Until then she has us," Cole said, pulling his knees to him and staring at the fire. "We are her pack."

* * *

><p><strong>Note:<strong> _Enanelas_ is a word I made up to mean mercy in the DA elven language. It's basically a fusion of _Enansal_ (blessing) and _abelas_ (sorrow). As Solas said, it's supposed to mean _blessing of sorrow_. _Fenlen_ is also an elven word I put together to mean _wolf-children_.


	7. Chapter 7: Mercy After Perseverance

**Chapter 7: Mercy After Perseverance**

Maxwell left Cullen's office, only realizing as he left that he had left the door ajar. Anyone who had wanted to eavesdrop would have had a better vantage. So it came as less of a surprise when he found a small woman with long brown hair leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed and head hanging. Her dejection matched Cullen's.

Before he acknowledged the woman he presumed to be Mercy Calloway, Maxwell closed the door. "I heard that you left Skyhold for a few days," he quietly said to her, his hand still on the door. "Glad to see you've returned, Mercy Calloway."

Mercy tilted her head up, but hesitated to meet Maxwell's eyes. Instead, she turned her head away from him, hiding her face behind her hair. "Thank you, Inquisitor. It heartens me that you know who I am."

"I think you can make a difference," he said in a continued hushed voice as he came away from the door to stand in front of her. "I can only do so much for our Commander. Words of encouragement here and there. A pat on the back. A drink at the tavern or a game of chess when he's feeling sociable. I can be his friend. But in the end… I can only do so much." The woman was silent and unresponsive. "And Cullen… he needs something more. He needs someone who can be there for him… in the end."

Her posture now loosened and she was standing with her hands at her sides, visibly trembling, head still turned away. "You don't know what you're asking," she whispered.

"I believe I do," he promised her. "I may not have the right to ask it of you; nevertheless, I'm asking."

Her fists were balled and clenched; her voice quavered as she asked, "What would you have me precisely do, Inquisitor?"

That's when Maxwell recognized where Mercy's determination to overcome whatever fear she was holding onto came from. Mercy was going to listen to _him_, specifically, because he was the Inquisitor. Her own judgment was telling her she couldn't or shouldn't help Cullen. She was afraid to. But because Maxwell was the one asking… Mercy was going to do whatever Maxwell asked of her.

If Maxwell didn't already feel so strongly about her capability and the opportunity to help Cullen, he would instead feel as if he was abusing his power as Inquisitor in asking Mercy to help.

"Start by talking with him," Maxwell specified. He wanted to say something more, but he had already pressured her to the extent that she was gritting her teeth. Leaving in that moment was for the best. So he did, but several steps into the decision he thought to say, "Mercy,"—he spun around—"If you ever need to talk… about anything. You can come to me and I'll listen with an open mind."

Her posture loosened again, and she finally looked up to meet his eyes. Mercy's eyes were a sparkly bright green, but Maxwell thought that the sparkle may be because she had tears threatening to escape them. "That means the world to me, Inquisitor," she expressed. And by the resolve in her voice, he knew she meant it.

* * *

><p>"Oh, and one more thing," the Inquisitor walked right back up to her, wagging a finger. Mercy almost collapsed to her knees from the pressure of having <em>The Inquisitor<em> speaking to her. _Again_.

"Yes?" she was barely able to ask, being very still so that the tears in her eyes did not fall.

"I want you to tell him you're a mage, Mercy," he responded with a just authority.

_The Inquisitor knows I'm a mage?!_

Instead of collapsing to her knees, because then she could fall into the Inquisitor—and that would be deathly humiliating—Mercy fell backwards into the wall, catching it with one hand and reaching for her collapsing heart with the other.

Of course he knew. For all Mercy knew, the Maker told the Inquisitor.

Catching her breath, she could only manage a sequence of nods in agreement with Inquisitor Trevelyan's mandate. Mercy was going to have to tell Cullen she was a mage. It only made sense. But did she have to tell Cullen she was more than a mage?

"Anything else," she said clearing her throat, "Inquisitor?"

This seemed catch the Inquisitor slightly off guard and reached to rub his chin as he regarded Mercy more carefully. "Is there more for you to tell?" he pondered at her.

She swallowed the dry lump in her throat. "Perhaps."

He smiled at the response. "Perhaps those other things you should tell me first. Then we can decide when the time to reveal them to Cullen will be. I think our Commander can only handle one revelation tonight. He's had a trying day, as you probably overheard."

More nodding was all Mercy could do. Before leaving her, the Inquisitor patted her on the shoulder, it actually making her feel better. As she watched him walk toward the rotunda, a smile formed on her lips.

Overall, her first encounter with the Inquisitor left the impression that he was not as honest a man as she had thought. He was a player of the game—the one that nobles often played. Aedan Cousland had been similar.

_That's what it is…_

She felt the memories stir, bringing back feelings of companionship and respect for another person lost to her. Aedan had been a friend. Noble but cunning. Meddlesome but strong-minded. They looked nothing alike, but Inquisitor Trevelyan reminded Mercy of Aedan in personality and manners; even by the way he walked—head held high and an open smile to all who acknowledged him. And everyone did acknowledge him. How could they not when he was so... noble.

The difference between Mercy's long lost friend and the Inquisitor was that Inquisitor Trevelyan was a mage. And he was alive. And Mercy had not, and would not, fail him. As she had with Aedan.

If the Inquisitor wanted her to support Commander Cullen, Mercy would not argue. She would not run away, despite her fears. Her loyalty had been laid. And it was with the man who had just asked her to face her fears. Who had just given her a purpose. It was exactly what she had wanted when she came to serve the Inquisition. A purpose.

So what if it was happening differently than she anticipated. There would be no more hiding; no more living in fear. Mercy was going to be a tool for the Inquisition—a tool for Inquisitor Trevelyan.

She turned and walked up to Cullen's door. Her first real task to help the Inquisition: Inform Commander Cullen that she would be his secretary. Talk with him. Or was it… Tell him she was a mage, first?

Her hand came up to knock, but she couldn't; not as she figured into her head how the conversation would turn for the worse once she admitted she was an apostate. Mages were free now, allied with the Inquisition, but Cullen was an ex-Templar. She didn't know how he would take it.

He had also stopped taking lyrium. That could mean that Cullen wanted change so desperately that he would not care that Mercy had ultimately lied to mostly everyone. Solas knew. The compassionate Cole knew. Maybe through one of those two, that's how the Inquisitor knew—at least the bit about her being a mage. If these three could understand, why couldn't Commander Cullen?

She knew why, but she refused to dwell on it, keeping Inquisitor Trevelyan as her motivation. The hesitation to knock dissolved only because Mercy entered Cullen's office without knocking.

Cullen groaned from his chair behind his desk, his head in a hand. Without looking up he said, "My office is closed for the evening. I don't want anyone disturbing me until morning."

As she stepped inside her foot nudged remnants of something wooden and ceramic splayed on the floor. She recognized some smaller components as a Templar's lyrium devices. She stepped over them, swinging the door shut and saying, "We'll work on getting you a sign for your door so everyone will know when you need alone time."

"Mercy," he said in disbelief and immediately tried to stand from the chair, shuddering in weakness halfway. He looked embarrassed, relieved to see her, and in pain all at once. It was an intense, scrunched up, and flushed face. He leaned over his desk to let it pass before he said, "I wish you did not have to see me like this. I was hoping… "

"That I wouldn't see what it looked like when a Templar stopped taking his lyrium." She came around the desk and nudged him until he understood she wanted him to sit back down. He did not resist and plopped back into the chair.

"It was in the reasons why I believed I shouldn't have a secretary," he told her in poor defense for himself.

She answered him with, "If you think you are the first Templar I've seen fight a lyrium addiction, Commander, you are sadly mistaken." Without permission she started to pull at his right arm and unbuckle the belt of his vambrace.

"What—" He jerked away. "What are you doing?"

With a strategic, disapproving glower she replied, "Helping you relax, Commander," before she recaptured his arm and started over.

"That's… unnecessary," he said, remaining tense, but doing nothing to stop her from working. She came around and unbuckled the left one. Then she started on the pauldrons. Cullen watched her hands; it wasn't surprising how entranced he was by her adeptness of removing the heavy armor. Mercy could not count how many times she had removed heavy armor. This time, however, the person under the armor was different.

Memories of Rory stole her thoughts. How ticklish he was, so when she went to unbuckle the pauldrons he'd squirm and laugh. How he'd sometimes reach up and push her hair behind her ears as she worked the armor off his body. And then how he'd innocently stare at her when she glanced at him judgmentally, secretly wanting him to do more than pull her hair.

Mercy tried hiding her pained emotions behind her hair as she exaggeratingly leaned over Cullen's arms and shoulders just for the chance to hide behind her hair. The Commander noticed her reactions and instead of watching her hands, he glanced up and caught her flattened, cold expression.

"Lean forward, Commander," she told him in harshness as she went behind, unfastened his fur-collared surcoat from the breastplate, and then unbuckled the breastplate. Cullen fortunately said nothing and even began working with her until she was able to pull the breastplate off. He was left in a short-sleeved brown leather tunic underneath.

Avoiding eyeing him should have been easy, because she was caught up in her memories of Rory and she shouldn't make the comparison. It was not easy. She stole a glance of the Commander as she turned to set his breastplate down by side of the desk. He was muscular like any Templar. He was not as hairy as she had imagined, but that was good. Good because Rory had been hairy—dark haired and his chest had been covered with it. Cullen looked nothing like Rory—_Thank the Maker._

Mercy also gave herself a mental slap in the face for even wanting to make a comparison.

Once she'd set the breastplate down, she did not return to Cullen's side. Hugging herself, she walked to the corner of his office and pretended to be interested in the bookshelf. She actually was interested in what he had on his shelves. By the time Cullen said something, she had read off twelve titles. Only five of them had she read before. She recognized most of the others.

"I… uh… You… You've done that before. Helped a man out of his armor… "

"Yes," she replied as if it was of no importance. _It shouldn't be_, she told herself.

Funny. What was going through Commander Cullen's mind if he was noting that she had experience in taking off a man's armor? Her attention returned to him with an inquiring gaze. The man was not relaxed; he was leaning back in his chair with his arms folded as hers were, as if the two of them were very cold—or maybe nervous.

"Before you changed your mind—before you left… You had mentioned you would return to Denerim. Is that where you were a Chantry sister?"

"It was," she simply replied. She did not like where the conversation was going. It was no longer funny. "You look cold, Commander," the subject had to be changed. "You're not used to being out of your armor?"

"I'm not," he fully admitted. "Not in company."

_Nothing like Rory,_ she distinguished again. The Commander was timid. It was quite adorable.

Mercy came back to his desk to sit in the chair in front of it. "I promise not to tell anyone what you look like underneath it," she teased. He snickered, finally relaxing and unfolding his arms. This encouraged Mercy to add, "I won't tell anyone that you dress like a pirate underneath your armor."

"A pirate?!" he inquired with humored offense.

"Have you ever seen a pirate, Commander? They wear tall leather boots. Typically, black pants. And I've seen a fair share with big leather belts."

Cullen looked down at his clothing before a slanted smile appeared on his face. "And when have you had time to steal glances of pirates, Ms. Calloway?"

"Denerim is a port city, is it not?" she tossed back at him. "There's this place called The Pearl… " She suddenly stopped and faked a cough, realizing she would have to talk about Rory if she told the story. "I'd rather not say how I know what a pirate looks like, actually."

Silence passed between them as Mercy stared and ran a hand through her hair, thinking. Cullen was thinking, too, as he glanced at some of the paperwork on his desk.

"Commander," she started, now staring at the floor with the blankest expression she could muster. "There's something you should know."

"Yes?" his returned response sounded hopeful and enthusiastic.

It made Mercy cringe on the inside. The problem was that her chest was pounding so hard she could hear it. The words she needed to speak were on the tip of her tongue, but her mouth became so dry. The air froze around her, she thought. She even worried that she had accidently cast a spell that had done it.

"I'm an apostate," she said so low that she wasn't sure he would hear her.

She refused to look at him, but the silence was enough to let Mercy know that Commander Cullen had, indeed, heard. And he was coming to the revelation that the Inquisitor had predicted.

More silence until, "You joined the Inquisition as an army recruit," he stated, understandably examining the facts. He sounded more concerned than cross. "Why? When you could have joined as a mage? The Inquisitor supports the mages' cause. You are in no danger of being an apostate in Skyhold."

"I try to have nothing to do with magic," she answered.

"That puts you in danger," Cullen harshly told her. "Without training, you put yourself and others in danger." His eyes went distant before he said, "The free-for-all fight that started among the recruits." He was seeing what really happened. "You knocked down the tent… You caught those dummies on fire… with magic. And the reason you were so clumsy during training exercises… "

Mercy groaned, pulling at her eye sockets, and fell back into her chair. "Yes to all those things. I was struggling as a recruit, because I was struggling to control my magic."

"We must have you trained, Mercy," he was inexplicably firm in saying. "I will speak with Enchanter Fiona tomorrow. We will find you a trainer. It's not too late to learn control."

This raised Mercy's attention and she sat up, exclaiming, "No!" Cullen gave her an opposing glower. "I mean… I already have a trainer. A _mage_ trainer," she clarified. "He's agreed to personally train me. Alone. Away from prying eyes. I prefer it that way."

This news did not make the man behind the desk any happier. "I would like to know who?" he demanded.

"Someone," Mercy growled back. "It's not for me to say who." The opposing glower on the Commander's face became a scowl, so she stated, "He's a member of the Inquisition… in a manner of speaking. He lives in Skyhold. He's an experienced mage." There had to be something that could sway him. "You know him by name," she retorted, throwing her hands up in aggravation.

"Maker, if I find out it's Dorian… "

"Please, Commander," Mercy pleaded as she stood up from the chair and leaned over his desk. "It's being taken care of. I'm going to learn to be a better mage. I don't want you worried about it. You've got bigger concerns than little ol' me. And I won't let my training interfere with my responsibilities as your secretary." Cullen was taken aback by the mention of the job, so Mercy concluded, "That is… if you'll still have me as your secretary… "

There was no hesitation when he said, "Of course." A chuckle escaped his hardened disposition. "However, I will also want progress reports on your training. It's now a requirement if you will be working with me, Mercy."

Mercy puffed up her cheeks and stared at the Commander in resistance. "Fine," she eventually grumbled when Cullen would not stop staring at her as if he'd already won.

Scowling, she pushed off his desk and went for the door main door. "Tomorrow, Commander, you and I will be working closely with one another. Hopefully neither of us regrets it."


End file.
